


Breathe

by Stormraven24



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Comfort, Fix-it fic, Fluff, Gaston develops feelings of conscience and awareness and other human emotions, M/M, PTSD/repressed memories, Panic Attack, Post-Movie, and Josh Gad's LeFou is a precious muffin who must be protected at all costs, because gdi I love Luke Evans' Gaston so I'm fixing the damn movie, major character injury (not described), might do a followup to further explain my theory but eh, no one deserves LeFou
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-01 23:04:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14531304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormraven24/pseuds/Stormraven24
Summary: The nights are the worst, when everything is dark and silent. That's when the past slips back into remembrance. But just like last time, Gaston doesn't have to cope with it alone.





	Breathe

_It's the screams that register first. Jarring enough on their own, but endlessly terrifying when each one takes on an individuality that's impossible to ignore: this one a shriek of fright (of what, he cannot see, nor does he wish to), that one a cry of pain (the result of self-inflicted harm or 'therapy'), those there ones that simply exist because the alternative silence is unbearable. He'd kill for silence right now, or even the boom of cannonfire. Those were familiar, even comforting in how acquainted he'd been with them during the war. The screams on the battlefield at least were short-lived. These, however..._

_They won't stop. He wants them to stop. Make them-_

“-STOP!”

The scream this time is his own, piercing the dark and seeming to echo in the small room...or is that just in his head? It wouldn't be the first time. The days following Gaston's fall from grace (and a castle turret) have made him begin to doubt his sanity, sending his thoughts back to that madhouse; what else was he to do while confined to bedrest (and house arrest) but think. Perhaps if he had any inclination to read-

The thought is immediately cut off when the very idea of reading reminds him of Belle, which reminds him of sending Maurice to the asylum, which leads him back to the recovered memories that have been plaguing his sleep as of late. It's all so circular and unending and...

There's pressure on his chest. Something's pushing on his chest, and there's a sound in his ear. Both are gentle, the sound soft. But he can't focus on them. He can't breathe, can't breathe, can't bre-

“Gaston.”

That voice. He knows that voice, has heard that soft lilt so many times before. But who-

Hands. On his face. Calloused palms and soft fingers catching on his stubble, directing his head, guiding... Ah, LeFou. His constant companion, his only confidante, his greatest and only friend. There's a smile on that cherubic face, but not in his eyes. That's...not right. There's worry and concern and...fear? Why? Is something wrong? Is there an enemy nearby? But the war is over-!

“Gaston,” LeFou says again, even more gently than before. Gaston likes how his name sounds from those lips. “There you are.” Of course hes here, wherever 'here' is. “Focus on me, my friend. Breathe with me, all right? In...” Gaston watches how his friend's nostrils flare and his lips press together as he inhales “...out. In...” He's fascinated just watching LeFou do something as simple as breathing, so much so that he wants to mimic him, how steady each inhale is followed by an equally steady exhale. “That's it.” He's not sure exactly what he's doing to make the darkness in LeFou's eyes fade and his smile to grow brighter, but he's not one to turn down praise. He continues to follow his friend's lead.

The pressure on his chest has returned, and a glance down shows LeFou's hand splayed in the center, all five fingers spreading flat, even force, rising and falling with each breath Gaston takes. The weight of his hand gives the hunter a kind of goal to reach for, so he forces his breaths slower and deeper, each one pushing LeFou's hand that much further. He stops only when breathing in such a way becomes exhausting; LeFou stops with him, though his hand remains on the loose nightshirt that's sticky with sweat. “There you go,” he whispers.

Now that his lings no longer feel on the verge of imploding, Gaston takes stock of the situation: LeFou perched on his bedside (so delicate and dainty for a rotund man), carefully watching him in the flicker of a lone candle, one hand on his chest, the other cradling his cheek. Oh, yes, this is LeFou's bedroom, the room he and the doctor had brought him to after breaking both legs, several ribs, and cracking several vertebrae in his fall from the castle. The room he'd become intimately well-acquainted with over the months, unable to leave and feeling like an invalid.

Anger nearly overtakes him, halted only by the sight of LeFou's face and the memory of the man's constant devotion and care. Not once had he complained, even when Gaston was purposefully being his most difficult, never demanded payment for having to double the amount of food he had to purchase and prepare each day. Not once did LeFou look upon him with resentment or pity or disgust. Shame settles in Gaston's breast in place of familiar anger instead, a feeling he has been experiencing ore and more often. He hates it.

“Bad dream?” LeFou asks, voice barely above a whisper in the still dark.

Gaston turns his head, unable to bear the concern and patient kindness in those dark, shining eyes. “No.” The word comes out cracked, so he clears his throar to try again. “Memory.”

Understanding lights in LeFou's expression, and Gaston braces himself for the inevitable question.

“Would you like me to comb your hair?”

That...that wasn't the expected question. His confusion surely shows, for LeFou simply cups both sides of his face and says, “It's still late. I'll help you go back to sleep, sans bad memories.”

The innocence in those words, in his voice and hands takes Gaston by surprise ( _you fool,_ part of his brain screams, _why do you still care, after all I've done to you, why don't you see you're too good for me?_ ). But his ribs are throbbing dully and there's a twinge in his lower back and he's suddenly too tired to question or fight anything. His head falls to LeFou's shoulder in acquiescence (he smells good, he always smells so good), and the man rubs his cheek on Gaston's sweaty head. Everything drains out of him at the gesture; nothing matters or even exists right now but the two of them in this tiny room illuminated by only one small candle.

He lets LeFou guide him down to the bed, cover him with the thin blanket he'd brought out when the weather turned from frigid to mild. He starts to adjust the pillow, but gentle fingers on the sensitive flesh of his inner arm stop his movements. “You don't want that lumpy old thing.”

The humor in that dulcet voice allows Gaston to follow suit. “I knew you were hiding the good stuff from me.”

LeFou chuckles as he carefully lifts Gaston's head, then just as carefully sets it in his lap. The comb patiently, tenderly works out the knots at the ends of Gaston's dark locks, then moves up to his scalp. The easy rake of the prongs across the skin then down to continue undoing any lingering tangles is enough to turn his entire body to jelly. “LeFou,” he sighs when fingers join the comb to scratch through his hair, “you're the best.” He looks up to meet LeFou's inverted gaze, hoping the sincerity and affection he feels is carried in his voice. “Truly, the best.”

An indulgent smile is his only response for a long while, as if LeFou doesn't entirely believe him but will take the compliment regardless. That doesn't sit right with Gaston; this wonderful, beautiful man is absolutely the best thing this hell of a world has to offer, Does he not see that?

The quiet clack of wood-on-wood signals the dismissal of the comb to the bedside table. But Gaston isn't ready for LeFou to stop, doesn't want him to leave so soon (or at all). He turns to lay on his stomach (his back thanks him, though his ribs try to protest), wrapping his arms around his friend's girth and nestling his head on a meaty thigh. “I mean it. This town doesn't deserve you.” _Nor do I._

“Hush, _mon ami._ ” Unfairly plush lips press into Gaston's temple, and the sudden thought of touching his own to them brings heat to his face (and an overwhelming need to make it a reality soon). Deft fingers resume combing through his hair, the motion and sensation immeasurably calming. “To sleep with you, you ridiculous man.”

Gaston will argue later how the truth of his declaration doesn't warrant name-calling, but for right now, the soft flesh under his cheek and in his arms, the easy strokes of nimble fingers through his hair, and the quiet hum of a lullaby are enough to still his tongue for the moment.

True to his word, LeFou keeps the memories and nightmares away like the guardian angel he is.

 


End file.
